


The Family Way

by wearitcounts (Sher_locked_up)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Day At The Beach, Domestic Fluff, Families of Choice, Fluff, Happy Ending, Johnlock Fanzine, Love, M/M, Out and Proud, Puppies, going on holiday in america
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-16
Updated: 2017-01-16
Packaged: 2018-09-18 00:21:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9353774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sher_locked_up/pseuds/wearitcounts
Summary: She’s long and lean and has glossy red-brown fur and she’s absolutely gorgeous, but it’s Sherlock’s face when he sees her; anything that makes Sherlock’s face do that is something John wants to keep.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is my ficlet for the Johnlock Fanzine project. Please consider purchasing a copy, as all proceeds go to LGBT charities!

The whole thing had really started when John brought up the fact that he and Sherlock had never been on a proper holiday, and now that they were a couple, that was something couples ought to do once in a while. Sherlock had given John a very serious look and asked where John might like to go, and John had told him he’d go just about anywhere if Sherlock would agree to relax and enjoy himself. So Sherlock decided he’d like to visit places in America that were named after places in England, had done exhaustive research to find the most promising ones, and that was how they ended up in Gloucester, Massachusetts, which, as it turns out, isn’t really anything like the Gloucester in England.

They’re staying at a charming little place with an ocean view, and the nearby beach is very large and the sand is very white and smooth and the water is cold and blue and perfect for swimming. They’d spent the last three days lying about, shagging, and eating spectacularly delicious seafood, and that morning Sherlock had suggested they go to the beach.

John is pleasantly surprised and incredibly fond over how much Sherlock loves the beach; it makes sense, really. Lots of good people-watching to occupy his mind with deductions, and, when he gets bored with the people, a creek running underneath a footbridge that’s got tidepools full of little crabs and barnacles and all sorts of other interesting stuff he can scramble around in. Sure, Sherlock can be fussy about things like his hair and his clothes and his coat when he’s concerned about all that armour, John supposes, but when he’s relaxed and happy, or laser focused, he disregards all that is corporeal. The man regularly licks dirt.

Still, it’s all rather adorable, Sherlock with a smear of sunscreen not quite rubbed in all the way on the side of his nose, hair a windswept pile of curls, sand all over his dampened feet and ankles.

“Wouldn’t have figured you for a beach bum,” John says, lying back propped up on his elbows, regarding Sherlock from behind brand-new Ray-Bans.

“Mm,” Sherlock says, and then, “you’re going a bit red, just there... here, let me—”

He sits beside John on the beach blanket they brought and picks up the tube of sunscreen lying off to the side. Then John doesn’t really pay much attention after that because Sherlock’s decided to not so much _apply_ as _massage_ sunscreen onto his chest, his shoulders, and when he sits up properly, all down the sore muscles in his back.

It’s heavenly.

He glances around lazily, taking in the young families with children splashing in the shallow waves that keep rolling in, the golden retrievers running into the water after tennis balls thrown by their owners, the ambient noise of the water and the wind and the laughter and, somewhere, pop music floating out of a portable speaker. It feels right in the way John always feels right when it’s just him and Sherlock and the rest of the world buzzing along around them, only now it’s even more, because now Sherlock is his to touch and to kiss and to fall asleep next to and wake up curled around. He lets out the happiest sigh he’s capable of and turns to lean and place a tiny sweet kiss on the corner of Sherlock’s mouth. “Thanks, love.”

They sit quietly for a moment, basking in the sun and the sea air, until a dog runs over to their blanket, drips wet, sandy water all over it, and happily drops a ratty tennis ball covered in slobber into John’s lap.

Sherlock looks as though he couldn’t hold in his laughter if he tried.

John laughs too, pats the dog a bit and throws the ball toward the sea, where two small children are playing. He lets out a small sigh at the sight of the little boy in the striped shorts running over to the dog and throwing his little arms around her.

“Do you ever wish it weren’t just the two of us?” John asks lazily, letting his head loll back on his shoulders as he turns to face Sherlock.

“John, I…” Sherlock’s face is a puzzle of apprehension John can’t remotely being to parse. “I realize it was difficult, finding out the life you thought you’d lead… finding out about everything.” Sherlock pauses, shifts over onto one elbow and forearm, the better to face John. “I don’t know if our current lifestyle would be sustainable with a child involved. Perhaps we could get Mrs. Hudson to look after it whilst we’re on cases, but really, it seems a bit presumptuous to assume—”

“Sherlock,” John interjects gently, taking the hand Sherlock’s about to push wildly through his own hair and settling it back against John’s chest, “I was talking about getting a dog.”

 

*

 

It doesn’t take long to find her. She’s long and lean and has glossy red-brown fur and she’s absolutely gorgeous, but it’s Sherlock’s face when he sees her; anything that makes Sherlock’s face do that is something John wants to keep.

The shelter employee—Lara, John reads on her name badge—cheerfully volunteers that she’s an Irish setter, almost two years old, and an utter sweetheart, a fact she proves by pushing her soft little head into Sherlock’s hand and gazing up at him with an almost solemn request for his undivided attention. John watches as Sherlock crouches down and ruffles her ears, presses kisses to her wet black nose and her velvety muzzle and her furry little forehead.

“We’ll have this one,” John says, watches Sherlock smile and croon softly and he thinks again, yes, this—anything to keep this.

It all would be just about perfect, were it not for the very shaggy, very hopeful-looking dog that absolutely and utterly refuses to remove herself from underfoot.

“Excuse me,” John says ineffectually. The dog fixes him with what John thinks might be the dog version of a cheeky grin, and lets out a little huff of noise.

“Boof,” the dog agrees.

“You’re… in my way. A bit,” John adds. The dog, for her part, sits down between John’s legs and rubs her face against the inside of John’s left knee.

“John,” Sherlock says suddenly, turning from where he’s filling out paperwork, “has that dog been following you this whole time?”

“Yeah, actually.” John gives the dog a little pat and laughs. “I’m beginning to wonder if I smell of dog food.”

Sherlock studies the dog and John can already tell by the look on Sherlock’s face that this might mean… well, it might mean just about anything, knowing Sherlock, but John suspects it’s going to mean twice as much walking, and feeding, and running to Tesco for another packet of treats.

“Sherlock…”

“We’ve got to take her.”

“But we already picked a dog!”

“We’ll have two.”

“But…” John can already feel himself wavering. The look on Sherlock’s face matches the look on the dog’s.

“She’s obviously possessing of superior intelligence and taste, and will be an excellent addition to our household.”

“How do you figure?”

“John,” Sherlock says, and he sounds exasperated in the very fond way he only reserves for John, “ _she_ chose _you_.”

 

*

 

The thing about having two dogs, John comes to realize as he and Sherlock sit together in one chair by the hearth (ridiculous—two grown men in one chair—and yet perfectly reasonable; Sherlock likes to be held, and John likes to sit in his chair), Annie and Maggie all curled up together in front of it, is that they have each other.

John watches the firelight play off of Annie’s shiny red coat as it falls over Maggie’s brownish-grey fur, and his heart feels as full as it’s ever been. They all have each other.


End file.
